Author Archives: Jeremiah Murphy

Duke of Earl’s

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They say, “They say you can never go home again.” You can, but it’s complicated.

The last time my nuclear family got together was at my wedding in 2005, and my bride couldn’t get me away from them fast enough. Over the years, sibling has seen sibling, and kids have seen parents, but the five of us who grew up with each other in New Mexico in the eighties and nineties have not gathered.

It took some doing, but we finally arranged it so the five of us could get together to celebrate our parents’ fiftieth anniversary a month late, on May 6. That’s why I was sitting on a Southwestern flight next to a guy who looked like Ted Cruz’s head on a jacked mercenary’s body.

Picking up my reserved rental in the past had been an exercise in tedium and frustration. The last time took an hour of waiting in a line that didn’t move. This time took fifteen minutes, no line, and about five of those minutes were me waiting at the wrong lot.

I came to Gallup three years ago to work with Shane on a project, and I remember being tackled by nostalgia. This time, it was for the aesthetic of the state. I don’t think I noticed New Mexico like I did yesterday.

While I drove from Albuquerque, I was in awe of the sky, and of the pink and red and white landscape, covered by a lot more green than you’d expect from a desert. Layers of rock and fossilized animals jut out of the desert floor. Bridges span channels that had once been rivers. In the distance, the empty desert is dotted with houses far from civilization. Halfway to my old home is a lava bed miles and miles across. Even closer to my old home is Red Rock State Park, so named because there are rocks in it.

I arrived in Gallup, driving a car that literally drove itself on the interstate. Before I met my family, I stopped at the office supply store, Butler’s, for supplies. It took a long time to get out of there with my purchase because nobody is in any hurry to do anything in this town.

Gallup doesn’t have a bookstore, so imagine my surprise to find one in this privately owned Gallup landmark. The owner is a guy named Barry, whose name is on the building, and we discussed putting my book on their shelves. He can be difficult to talk to because he listens to you speak, waits, and gives you a look like you’re supposed to say something else. I babbled.

Finally I arrived at the house my sister rented for the reunion, the walls of which, like every vertical surface in the state, is covered in adobe. It was also without right angles, and with no clear direction as to where everyone’s room is. Stairs can go to nowhere. A tesseract is a shape that cannot exist in Euclidean space. This house is a tesseract.

I talk to my parents every other week, and through video chat, it’s not clear just how old they are. My mom moves slowly and is in a lot of pain. My dad’s still really spry, but he’s hunched over, and his hearing aids don’t ever seem to work. I spend a lot of time listening to him go, “Huh?”

With the addition of my niece, my niece’s stepfather, and my niece’s husband, there were now eight of us. As football was to the Kennedys, hanging out and talking about nothing is to my family. We did that for what turned out to be hours until we got hungry. That meant Earl’s.

Earl’s is a Gallup landmark on the east side of town. Earl’s is a diner like Johnny Rockets is a diner, which is to say it’s not, but it has characteristics of one. Earl’s has a brand. Earl’s is a family restaurant, not a joint where you hang with friends for hours. Earl’s was where Natives, usually adorable children, went table-to-table selling you jewelry. Earl’s was fine dining when I was growing up, and most of my happy memories in my adolescence were there.

I always remembered the place being crowded, the silhouettes of patrons framed by bright colors. I remember a unique entrance that made you feel like royalty. I remember the six-foot pie case to my right and the miles-long dining counter to my left. I remember the carpet. I hadn’t been there in twenty-seven years. What kind of facelifts had it been given in that time?

None. I could have been stepping in here on the eve of moving to New York in 1998.  

Lately, I’ve been taking pictures of buildings for references. For art and for nostalgia, I photographed Earl’s unique façade, as well as the sign that has remained unchanged for at least fifty years, even in the unforgiving desert sun. As I approached the restaurant, a shadowy, smoking figure called out, “Ya takin’ pitchers uh me? Ya better be takin’ pitchers uh everybody! Ha! Just kidding.”

I told him, “I grew up here. Earl’s is a big part of my life.”

“I know the owner!”

“Cool.” I attempted to retreat.

“He’s the son of the last owner.”

“Fascinating! Gotta eat!”

I escaped and joined my family of misfits, just in time to order. I used to love the patty melt, so that’s what I got. The good-natured, but direct, waiter, hit me with a barrage of questions. When I answered the last one (“Tater tots.”), the family chatted. I told stories, I made bizarre observations, and everybody related.

The food came, and it was time to eat. There were some things I was unprepared for. My brother-in-law, Shafiq, asked for a half-order of an Indian taco, and it was a slab. My niece, Sera, ordered a sandwich of some sort made with fresh frybread. My sister Becca ordered a mound of fries. My mother ordered the split-pea soup. She said it was very good.

I have no memory of this from my youth, but tater tots at Earl’s look like onion rings. They also served a small pile of sliced pickles next to a spear. The waiter explained, “Some people ask for sliced pickles, some people ask for spear pickles. Some people ask for both. Some people don’t want any pickle. Whatever, so we just gave them the pickles.” I’m a “don’t want,” but I appreciate the effort.

The waiter returned with the check, and I handed him a credit card. He said, “There’s a gratuity included, but if you can leave me more of a tip if you want to.” When he came back, I saw how inexpensive dinner for six was. He reminded me, “Like I said, there’s a gratuity included, but you can leave me cash, or you can fill it in right here.” That was about as aggressive as I’ve ever seen a server before, and I respected the hustle enough to persuade my family to leave him more.

He got an additional 20 percent, on top of the 18 from the gratuity.

Shafiq pointed out that we had stayed past closing, and we were keeping these people from their homes. Feeling awfully rude, we shuffled out. Despite this, though, our waiter ran out and caught up to us because Shafiq had forgot his food.

Today’s Dad’s birthday, and I have a speech prepared. I’m really nervous.

The View from Below

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When I started drawing again over two years ago, my writing suffered. It seemed like I only a finite amount of creativity. Still, I persisted. Less than one year ago, I completely rewrote the second two thirds of a novel I’d finished in 2021, and I adapted a (bad) screenplay I wrote in 2023.

What I’ve noticed in my writing renaissance is that my books are less introspective and grounded than they used to be, and more surreal and cartoony, with brake-neck action.

Now I’m working on a completely new idea, Subterraneus Obscura, thanks to some inspiration from my dear friend, Emilie. She continues to help me out, coming up with names for nightclubs to prodding me when I need help developing a character.

The book jumps from POV to POV of the three characters below.

Ember is the trailblazer, exploring the world underneath Washington DC with panache.

Lucky, their sidekick, is the fortunate one, with inhumanly good luck and a taste for pot.

The fugitive is Juliette, running from the law through Metro tunnels when she is swept up in the adventures of the other two.

The Odd Couple

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A year ago, I was getting used to life without Newcastle. I’d retrieved his ashes, I put his food and water dishes away, and built a shrine. The hardest part was getting rid of his litter box.

I had bought him some steps because he couldn’t jump anymore, and they’re still there, fifteen months later, and I still ache a little when I see them. I don’t move them because I don’t want to the ache to go away.

I wasn’t lonely. It was almost a relief when he died because I didn’t have to give him several medications a day or clean his food bowls. I still miss him so much. I had decided not to get another cat. The loss of Newcastle hurt more than I could bear, and the last thing I wanted to do was replace him.

Life rarely listens to what you have to say.

A year ago, I was receiving a voice call, which was weird. It was from Noel, so I panicked. She asked if I could stash a feral cat for a couple of weeks. She and her partner were trying to corner a skeletal kitten who was licking a Reese’s wrapper. I said of course.

I still had Newcastle’s food and water bowls, as well as some of his food, so I whipped up a feast for my new guest. He arrived, and he was a friendly little guy who was pretty hungry. He also liked attention, which meant he had to stop eating for the ten seconds he got pets, and that was filling him with a lot of conflict. It was a bit of a roller coaster.

Noel needed me to hang onto him while he got tested for bugs, germs, and parasites. He couldn’t come home with her because he might have leukemia, or something, which could kill Henry. Henry was the love of her life.

Newcastle was the love of my life, and this creature, who I called Potato, looked exactly like he did when he was a teenager—less like a cat and more like an otter. The big difference was the white patch. For Newcastle, it was on his belly, but for Potato, it was on the tip of his tail.

He stayed with me for the next several days, eating, exploring, eating, napping, and eating. Noel was paying for all of that food and the vet visit. Her partner and I went in together, got all of the appropriate samples taken (except for, ugh, stool), a quick check of his coat and vitals. I pointed out to her partner that they probably thought we were a couple.

Because of the starvation, it was tough to get an accurate estimate, but he was about twelve-to-thirteen months old. Other than that, he was in perfect shape. That meant he belonged to someone, but there were no missing posters in the neighborhood.

Noel asked if I wanted to keep him, I said I’d think about it, but I’d definitely let him hang out for two weeks or, like, whatever. At the end of the two weeks, I concluded I didn’t know how I felt, but I did like having a roommate again.

Did this mean betraying the memory of Newcastle? I was still in mourning. I still am. I wasn’t supposed to get another cat. All I have of Newcastle is a stuffed animal, and now there’s this creature demanding all my attention.

I welcomed him into my home. Newcastle’s automatic feeder, food bowls, and so on, were getting used again. I set an eating schedule and have failed to live up to it, by which I mean I keep feeding him earlier. Soon, I’ll be feeding him yesterday. The cat tree hammock Newcastle never seemed to enjoy was now helping a young cat lounge.

Noel came by to get my final decision. She was disappointed because Henry needs a friend. He was mourning Newcastle too, and still is. While she was here, we discussed names because she was violently opposed to Potato. She also, shot down my preferred nom de guerre of Shenanigan. She’s right, that would have been a terrible name. Meanwhile, I vetoed Reese before she could even finish saying it. That didn’t stop her from suggesting it several more times.

While the little guy divided his time evenly between us, she and I tried several names on. Nothing made sense. Nothing fit. He was too young and too feral to have a personality, but I wanted to give him the exact right name. All I knew about was that he was friendly. She took out her phone and scrolled through baby name websites.

I remember she read “Oscar,” and we had kept going, but it sunk in, several names later. He did look like an Oscar. I got him a collar and a cool lightning-bolt tag.

This is really hard to say, but I don’t love him. I’d do anything for him, but I don’t feel the same way I did with Newcastle a few months into our friendship. Maybe it’s a different kind of love. I don’t know.

I do know that I like having him around. This place was too quiet. Even after all this time, we’re still getting used to each other.

I have someone I can say inane things to and not be judged. I have someone to pet. I have someone to take care of. Those things mean a lot. It’s good to share this space with something alive.

My mother thinks that Newcastle, in cat heaven, sent Oscar to me so I wouldn’t be alone. That’s a really good thought, and I like thinking it.

Playgrounds New and Old

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When Kate and I first moved to the DMV area, we lived in Alexandria. I liked Alexandria because it was a quick Metro ride to DC proper, and it was a big enough city of its own. After we returned from Doha, she made the unilateral decision to move us even farther from the District, and I had no reason to go to Alexandria anymore.

If you’re pondering Alexandria, you might think of it as the home of the best sushi in the world. You might think about the other Washington Monument erected by the Masons. You might think of how the Revolutionary War was planned in a pub there (which explains a lot). That pub, still serving ale, is in Old Town.

The spring following my return to the area in, my friends, Steve and Mere, joined me as we ducked in and out of the quaint shops that line the walk from the Metro station to the Waterfront, about a mile and a half. We explored an interlinking series of cemeteries, as well as the Torpedo Factory (more on this later)

It took six years to return, this time by myself. Even though I’m working on a project this weekend, I wanted to enjoy the weather and crank out a few portraits in a spot where I’d see a lot of tourists. That place was ESP, which stands for Espresso, Snacks, and Pie. I had neither snacks, nor pie, but I did enjoy an Americano, along with a sticker. Every store and café in Old Town sold stickers.

I occupied myself with my weekend project because there was only one interesting person. There was also a deeply plunging neckline, but I only observed that through my strained periphery.

Later, with one eye on my sketchbook and one eye on foot traffic, I spied an older woman, her hair long and wild, looking as if she were going to tear that hair out. To my horror, she approached me, out of breath and panted, “I know you probably can’t help me because you’re a man, but I’m going to ask anyway.”

My mind struggled against this torrent of twitchy desperation like someone walking against a hurricane.

“Are you ready?” she demanded.

No. “Yes.”

“Do you know Call Your Momma?”

I sat there, and a number of thoughts rattled through my skull. Did she want me to call my mother? Was she talking about the bagel sandwich chain Call Your Mother? That would make the most sense. And yet. What was it about being a man that would handicap me from knowing a bagel shop’s location? It didn’t matter because I had no idea where it was. Just like a man.

It took about twelve seconds to put all of this together into one coherent thought, while she waited for my answer, quivering in impatience. “Sorry,” I replied, “I don’t live here.”

She stormed away, shouting over her shoulder, “Of course you wouldn’t know! You’re a man!”

Despite being the victim of misandry, my journey of nostalgia went on. I loved coming here when I was younger. But so much had changed. The only comic-book store in Alexandria is now a spa. The coffee-and-pastry place we liked to go to is an empty, gutted building.

One thing hadn’t changed: the Christian bookstore and the sex boutique are still there…

… separated by a tiny Thai restaurant.

That restaurant is a hero.

Eventually I arrived at the Waterfront. When I lived here, this was a parking lot. Now it’s families enjoying their freedom from the latest cold snap.

The reason I took the hour journey, which included two trains and a twenty-minute walk, was the Torpedo Factory. It was once a literal torpedo factory, and now it serves as studios and shopfronts for over a hundred artists.

I was able to make it through the whole building in a short amount of time because most of the studios were closed. A lot of the open ones sold jewelry, which I am not interested in. A lot of the remaining was just not my style. And yet, even though my interests were whittled down to such a small percentage, I saw a lot of great art Saturday.

I have an expensive philosophy when I go to art fairs: if you talk to me about your shit, I will buy something from you. All you have to do to start such a conversation is say hi. You’d be amazed at how many artists don’t get this.

I had four good conversations, and I bought something from three of them. (The fourth was out of my price range, but he gave me a post card.) My longest conversation, however, was not with an artist. It was the hippy at the art store was very chatty.

As soon as I walked in, she asked, “How’s your last day before martial law?”

I asked her why Easter, and she laid out a pretty good case. She also pointed out it was Hitler’s birthday, which was less convincing. We talked more about a lot of stuff while she flipped through my portrait sketchbook and observed that I must be straight. She thinks asexuality is hormones. She is also an atheist, a bit more militant than I.

Ordinarily, I don’t like to talk about politics. It makes me sick to my stomach, and it doesn’t fix the world. For some reason, Candace made it easy to vent. She then assured me that Trump’s days are numbered. She says that the Republican party will impeach him in a few months, July at the latest.

She’s never wrong about these things because she can see the future. She wasn’t talking about any of this “woo-woo shit.” She had a talent for pattern-recognition. Take her word for it.

I enjoyed chatting with her, but I wanted to find a table in the Waterfront and work on some more art. I saw two more interesting people, who I planning on drawing when I’m done with my project. Enriched, I journeyed home.

When people say you can’t go home again, it’s usually with regret and heartbreaking nostalgia. I certainly felt it today. However, nobody talks about the new, exciting stuff that replaces our old loves. Time moves on, nothing’s ever the same, and that’s how life stays fresh.

Harry Potter and the Miserable C-word

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I’m asexual. Many people, including close friends, don’t believe this. They see the fact that I like to draw sexy women as proof I’m not. They see that I’d had sex before with different partners as proof I’m not. Characters in my novels are often quite horny, which is proof I’m not. Some simply don’t believe asexuality exists. Maybe it’s a hormone issue. Maybe somebody hurt me. Maybe I just haven’t met the right person. Maybe I just have a headache.

I wrote and erased a point-by-point rebuttal to these because this is not about me, but it’s still very personal.

April 6 is Asexuality Awareness Day. This is a fairly new role for April 6, and I didn’t even know about it until this happened. JK Rowling knew, and she put out a snarky tweet. I considered posting an image of that tweet, but I didn’t want to google it. It basically says that it’s a day so people who don’t “fancy a shag” get to feel oppressed.

Fuck you, Joanne, we are oppressed. Google “acephobia” to see. There are conversions and
“corrective” rapes, as well as just straight-up violence. Did you know that the word “groomer,” so crucial to the stigmatization of Trans people, became popular describing aces? Apparently, we’re trying to indoctrinate children, when we just want to be left alone. Like Trans people.

The reason you don’t hear about acephobia is because we are, I believe, the smallest subset of the LGBT+ umbrella (if we’re included at all—that’s a gray area), and there are no legal protections for us. Currently, there are no pogroms directed against asexuals, but that could change soon.

Why should the government care who you have sex with? If you ask that question, you clearly did not live in the eighties and nineties, before gay people are such a part of society that even bigot Joanne Rowling (barely) supports them. No, the government is obsessed with who you have sex with.

When I first saw the tweet ten days ago, I thought she was just being a bitch. She is, after all, a bitch, and bitches do bitchy things. But the responses were increasingly unhinged, agreeing with her, denying we existed, telling us how we can be cured, or just threatening rape. Any time an ace stepped in to challenge this, Joanne herself mocked and dismissed them.

Trans people are under attack, and it will escalate even more as soon as the people who voted for Trump (i.e. most of the country) run out of immigrants to terrorize. Transphobia is not new, but it could be argued that JK Rowling made it mainstream. They can talk about how scared they are of men in dresses using the ladies room, but they’re not in any danger. And they know it. Trans people are a weak minority, and nobody’s going to stand up for them while they’re being harassed by the people who are supposed to protect them.

And now she’s coming for the asexuals. Like all fascists, she’s picking on a target that can’t fight back, and she’s raising the profile of us, mocking us then making us out to be a threat somehow. This will escalate.

I can blend into the allosexual world if I want to, but I don’t want to. I am fairly outspoken about being ace, and I intend to stay that way, even facing down the barrel of a gun.

Here’s the thing: Harry Potter is fine. I am not going to talk about how badly written it is (the word I’d use is competent, and leave it at that) or say I knew how problematic it was the whole time. There’s some good stuff in there, but much of it could be found, and presented better, in any Terry Pratchett novel. I’ve read all seven books and seen all the movies. I even think of myself as a Hufflepuff (without all the hard work stuff).

Lately, I’ve been forced to consider “The Death of the Author,” in which an author can be separated from their work. This is important when the artist behaves badly, as in the case of literary giant Neil Gaiman, and my favorite comic book writer, Warren Ellis, as well as comedians Bill Cosby and Dave Chapelle. So much of what I know about storytelling comes from these men, but I can’t separate the hate speech and rape.

Harry Potter fans with an inkling of a conscience use “The Death of the Author” as an excuse for putting on their Gryffindor scarfs and playing Quiddich, despite that the creator of this nonsensical sport is hateful and petty. She is the richest author, ever, and she wants Trans people in prisons, if not dead, for the sin of existing. And now the eye has turned to me.

Maybe they won’t come after asexuals. Maybe they won’t inspect my penis to make sure it’s being used properly. Maybe they won’t try to convert me. But American citizens are being sent to foreign countries to be imprisoned in hellish conditions. Trans people are being attacked by endless legislation. Gay teens are still being tortured legally.

Don’t tell me I’m overreacting. Don’t say it can’t happen. It is happening. You may not know any Trans people, but they’re still people, and you should care. It always starts small, with a little mocking and dismissal, and the next thing you know, you’re public enemy number one. And it looks like I’m next. You might be next.

In conclusion, if you’re a Harry Potter fan, I urge you to reconsider. I get that it’s part of your childhood, but Sandman was a crucial part of my life, and I’ve boxed it up and put it in the corner of my closet, along with my autographed copy of Norse Myths.

You are not your entertainment. You are a human being, and we need to look out for each other. If I can kick Neil Gaiman and Warren Ellis and all of my favorite books and comics to the curb out of solidarity to women, you can kick Harry Potter and the Insufferable Monster to the curb too, out of solidarity to Trans people, and hopefully not asexuals.

Late Bloomer

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I tried to catch the tail end of the Cherry Blossom festival today, but I missed all the flowers but a small patch away from the water. I was taking pictures of them when three women in their fifties asked me to take their picture. When I handed Woman 1’s phone back, she said:

WOMAN 1: Thank you, sir. Now, are you an expert on cherries?

ME: No, I don’t believe I am.

WOMAN 1:  I thought maybe these were a special kind of cherry tree that doesn’t have any cherries. Are they a special kind of cherry tree that doesn’t have cherries?

ME: I—

WOMAN 1: Have you been to the tidal basin? Are there cherries?

ME: N—

WOMAN 2: Where are my cherries!

WOMAN 1: He says these are special cherry trees that don’t have cherries.

WOMAN 2: Is he an expert on cherries?

ME: I live here, and I’ve never seen cherries.

WOMAN 2: It’s cold!

ME: You should have been here last week. I thought I didn’t have to wear socks anymore.

WOMAN 1: We’ve been here four days.

WOMAN 2: It’s too damned cold!

WOMAN 3: Nice to meet you!

Grave Matters

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I woke up directionless On Saturday. I wanted to draw, but nothing was coming to me. You can imagine what a relief it was when one of the most influential people from college shared with me his very good artwork. Dude’s got an eye for color and chaos. We chatted all morning, mostly about philosophy—not like two guys in togas, but rather about the decisions and circumstances that led to where we are. I picked up a lot of insight into my friend and into myself.

I wanted a café near the Metro so I could hop the train over to Union Station and see if Ember was around. I settled on Ididos, nearish to the Metro station, and would leave when I was good and ready.

Just as I was about to eat what I knew was going to be a fantastic, Ethiopian breakfast sandwich, my phone made a noise. It was an unusual noise. It was telling me I was getting a phone call. The only people who call me are the robots at the pharmacy, so I pulled it out of my pocket with sweaty hands.

The caller ID told me it one of the most influential people from New York. Immediately my mind said, “I can’t lose another one.”

There is nothing wrong with my friend. She was checking in because she had some precious, precious time, and she thought she’d spend some of it on me. She was such an amazing friend because she was a hilarious and filthy (and really professional) degenerate, and she was also the most loyal, sincere, protective, Mama B you’ll ever meet.

Energized by my friends and the four golf caps I saw, across all demographics, I decided not to go looking for Ember. Instead, I walked south. It was miles to the next station, and I had no idea how I was getting back home, but I didn’t care.

That’s how I stumbled onto Rock Creek Cemetery. I had been there in 2011 with a friend, seeking out Clover Adams’s grave. I remember how haunting it was. While I was in the neighborhood, directionless, I thought I’d find it again.

Clover is how Marian Adams was known to everybody. In the late 1800s, she was married to famous writer named Henry Adams, and they lived in Washington D.C., near the White House. She was a prolific photographer, and, by all accounts, their marriage was a happy one. However, after her father died, Clover sank into a deep depression and drank a lethal amount of photo-developing chemicals.

When I first heard this story, I was reminded how my then-father-in-law coped with his wife’s death. He purged every photograph with her in it, every tchotchke she collected. He even remodeled the family into something completely unrecognizable. Likewise, Henry burned her letters and photographs. Neither Henry nor my former father-in-law ever spoke of their first wives again.

Her burial was ostentatious. He hired celebrated architect Stanford White to design a memorial to mark Clover’s grave. There is a grove of trees with steps leading into the center. There you’ll find a large, curved marble bench that could seat six comfortably. Across the expanse marked by small, tumbled stones, sits Grief.

The full name of the statue is The Mystery of the Hereafter and the Peace of God that Passeth Understanding, by Augustus Saint-Gaudens. The newspapers saw that title and said, “We’re going to call it Grief.” The subject of the statue is not Clover Adams. It’s neither male nor female. Its only purpose is to mourn because Henry couldn’t.

As a skeptic, I can’t explain the vibe of that place. It was sad, but it was also kind of frightening, requiring me to push through a lot of fear to get that close-up. Then I did the unthinkable. I stuck around with my sketchbook. I’m going to put a lot of time and care into this one.

Henry Adams built an actual monument on top of the final remains of his beloved wife. Her name is nowhere to be found.

A Tale of Two Baristas

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I’m a very boring person. It can take a crane to get me out of my apartment. If it’s raining, forget about it. I’m living in a working retirement, so I’m making the most of my time.

Ordinarily, my day goes breakfast, hygiene, art (or draw on the train and for an hour before doing my job), then work in the morning, veg out in the afternoon and write in the evening. On the weekends, instead of working in the morning, I go to a coffee house.

This weekend in particular, I mostly lavished my attention on an ambitious art project, but I also wrote two thousand words of a new short story, and on Saturday, I had an outing. I went to my new favorite café, Ididos, my now-second-favorite café, Kaldi, and stopped at the art supply store for an art emergency. I came home, began this very post, and looked over my proofs.

The reason I don’t think of myself as a boring person is because I see every inconvenience as an insurmountable obstacle, every irritation a test of my moral character. Every time I get lost, I’m exploring a new territory, and my walk home from work is a journey. It’s how I keep myself from going insane.

My outing for this week was to hang out in Kaldi, because it was close to an art store. I had to go to the art store because either Oscar or myself lost my eraser. If you’ve tracked my artistic progress over the past two years, you know it took a while to pair with the best eraser for Jeremiah. This could not wait until I could visit to the one around the corner from work. This was urgent.

I raced to catch the first train to Maryland, which I thought was 7:15, but was actually 7:45. I was not waiting thirty-plus minutes in the station. But if I went home, I would immediately have to turn back around and take the uphill walk to the station. Basically, if I went home, I was staying there.

I strategized and concluded that I’d go to my Ididos and make the art store a tomorrow problem. From the Metro station, I was halfway there anyway. I ordered an egg sandwich, an iced coffee, and a berry beet smoothie, some of which smeared a page of my sketchbook.

I first discovered Ididos last Wednesday, so I was unprepared for the weekend crowd. They were Elder Millennials, and they looked like they were handling the economy just fine. Most of them were hauling babies around in papooses, except for the dad who hauled around a small Scottish Terrier. There were anywhere between three and forty-seven more mobile children, demanding the attention of parents who ignored them.

And let me tell you, I was fucking awesome. I did not get overwhelmed, I did not get frustrated, I did not get infuriated. At worst, I was annoyed, because I knew with conviction that this would end. I drew the barista and left when I started feeling antsy-in-my-pantsy.

Energized, I caught the train to Maryland, sat at the counter in Kaldi, enjoyed another fantastic smoothie (among its diverse ingredients were pineapple, ginger, and turmeric), and drew a barista, who was very different than the last one.

I was not feeling overwhelmed, like I often did during my outings, so I finished my drawings. However, while I was self-bussing, I realized my belt was malfunctioning, and I was about two steps away from my pants being around my ankles. I deposited my empty glasse, grabbed onto my pants, and walked, with dignity, to the men’s room.

That was not the most awkward thing to happen to me today.

The art store was not awkward. The art store lady did not look happy to be there. When I asked her to open the marker cage, she hemmed and hawed and rolled her eyes. I bought my eraser and the markers and left, to stand on the aboveground Metro platform while an older woman announced, with gusto, that Jesus allowed horrible things to happen to him four our benefit, and maybe she should be grateful for something for once in our lives. When the train arrived, she had the car to herself.

The first thing I noticed after I settled in was that the big, balding dork was reading a physical book. Point to the nerd. Then I noticed it was a Dungeons and Dragons monster manual, and he won all the points.

You know what? I was going to tell him. I was making it my mission to complement people more, so I tried to catch his eye and give him a thumbs up. This was the extent of interaction I wanted to have with anyone at that point. I’d had a long morning.

No luck. He was deep inside that manual. He was memorizing it. When the train pulled into the station, I was going to step outside my comfort zone. I was going to use my words. The best part was that I had timed this perfectly. I could say, “Good job!” then jump off the train before it got awkward.

I waved at him. I stepped closer and waved again. He looked up, and I said, “Hi! Dungeons and Dragons is awesome! Let your geek flag fly, man! You’re awesome!” I even gave him a thumbs up.

He pulled his earbuds out and said, “What?”

I went through the whole thing again, without as much passion. He told me was going through the new edition to see what’s different from the last one. I told him I wasn’t up to date, and he said, “I know. It’s pointless.”

And a hush fell over the car. I suddenly realized the door hadn’t opened yet. I wasn’t going anywhere. I had no idea what to say after that. How do you follow, “It’s pointless”? And the door still hadn’t opened!

It did, and I rushed to the escalator so I could walk down the stops, but a Maryland-bound train had also arrived, so it was a full platform. As I navigated the agreed-upon flow of foot traffic, I realized, to my horror, that D&D guy was behind me. The escalator was clogged, so I had to ride it. With him on the step behind me. I lost him at the turnstiles.

Tuesday, when they’ll ask me what I did over the weekend, I will tell them, “Went to the art store. Worked on my art.” No wonder people think I’m boring.

Pi in your Face

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I’m a little more lighthearted today, because it is Pi Day. Pi, as you might remember from geometry, is a less-than-rational number, calculated by assuming the cosine of circumgourds to the numfloppens and divining them with the abacusometers, before estimating a riff based on the interginalist figure to the nearest taurudite.

The first three digits that result are 3.14. After that, it’s sheer madness. Apparently, there are human beings out there who can recite it to hundreds of digits because they have something broken in their brains.

14 March, or 3/14 to normal people, is considered Pi Day, when we, as a world, stare in awe at this number, stretching off into infinity. And then we get bored and eat some pie.

That is not why I am celebrating 14 March. I’m celebrating 14 March because of Stephen’s birthday.

The first time I visited Kate in Indiana, I met Steve. The most notable thing about Steve was that he had panache. He was a dork. He knew he was a dork. And he strutted around like Tobey MacGuire in Spider-Man 3. I was dying to be his friend.

By the time I had moved to Bloomington, he had moved onto Cornell with his future wife, Meredith. After law school, they relocated to Alexandria, Virginia, shortly before we moved there. Steve and Meredith helped me feel welcome in a place that was otherwise confusing and lonely.

The first thing you must know about Steve is that he’s always right. If something doesn’t jive, he makes it known. He has a brain the size of a planet, so he probably is right, but if you contradict him, he will give you the benefit of the doubt. He won’t rule anything out if you have evidence. If you don’t know something that is in his wheelhouse, he will tell you. If he doesn’t know, he’ll look it up.

Steve nitpicks like a professional. He pointed out all the flaws in an episode of Justice League as we watched it to the point that the only thing left of the DVD was a smoldering puddle of plastic. When we put in GI Joe: Resolute, and he couldn’t find a single thing wrong with it, I knew I found a new classic.

Somehow, and I’m not sure how, he beta-read one of my Urban Fantasy short stories and returned with a scathing indictment. Some of his criticisms were spot on, and some of them completely missed the point of the story (which means I probably didn’t communicate it as effectively as I could have). Too late, because it got published as is. Suck it, Poindexter.

Steve is also one of the most inviting, attentive, and loyal people I know. I had pushed away all of my friends when I was married, and all the couple friends I’d made disappeared when the marriage was over. Steve, however, assured me he and Meredith weren’t going anywhere, and they took me out to dinner the night I got the news.

Steve laughs at all my jokes. All of them. And on the rare occasion that he doesn’t find it funny, it’s because he doesn’t get it. When I explain it, he laughs. As a nitpicker, his expertise would be greatly appreciated on my latest novel because I think I might have something here. If I don’t, or if something’s not working, he will not hesitate to let me know.

Steve is vibrant, curious, generous, goofy, a little smug, and can beat you to death with a stick. If anyone can and will tell me the technical differences between barrister and lawyer in more than just the Atlantic Ocean, it’s him. I’m honored to be his friend.

Whistling While I Work

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It was inevitable: I needed to return to the office. But first, my schedule: I wake up at four a.m. I know, I know. I catch the 5:15 train to Farragut North, followed by a four-block walk, a brief detour into the Wa-Wa for a breakfast sandwich, which for me is tuna salad on a croissant, and at my desk by 5:50. Take another five minutes to wake up the coffee machine (my ungrateful coworkers will never know what I have to endure being first in), and I have a solid hour to draw, not a minute wasted to get here.

So when I arrived at the metro station, a mile from my apartment, without my magical badge, my entire morning was fucked. I went back, grabbed the goddamned thing, disappointed my cat, and called an Uber, the only way I was getting a full hour in before work. As a man whose strict routines have kept him sane, I craved that full hour.

For some reason, the Uber GPS led the driver to the other side of the roundabout, and I thought he left, and then he picked me up, then he apologized and explained himself for over five minutes, and I didn’t need this kind of chaos. I was still twitchy.

I should have just worked from home. But I needed to be there. I needed to sit down in the breakroom, listen to podcasts and work on a piece of art for an hour. I needed to reset myself. I needed to be around people I knew. I needed to do this for myself.

The Uber dropped me off a few minutes after six. I did not get a full hour of art in, though I did finish one drawing. When you look at it, try not to think about the height of the counter. Like, what is she standing on?

A few minutes after seven, I dove right into the 171 emails I received, between the three inboxes I monitored, confirmed that my boss and my colleagues had already taken care of most of it, and moved onto where I was needed.

While I got caught up, the second person in was Work Dad, dressed in workout gear and looking like a Gen-X skateboarder. This was a side of him people who showed up on time never got to see. I weep for them. The third person at the office reminds me of a gray golden retriever because she is simultaneously shy and effusive, and she’s got a little slouch.

The fourth person who shows up is my Emergency Backup Boss. (She’s still a boss, but she’s not my main boss.) Before the vast office reshuffling, EBB and I were neighbors, and we’d check in with each other every morning. She is far away from me now, so we don’t see each other as much. But she dropped by to check up on me this morning, and I filled her in on everything.

I noted that I was talking very fast, and I was having a difficult time shutting myself up. That is a bad sign.

There was an employee luncheon that afternoon, and she and my boss talked me into going. When the hour arrived, we left with a group, but EBB and I got way ahead of everybody because it was cold, and we were hungry. I followed her around because either she knew what she was doing, or she was acting like she did, and I needed that confidence to hold onto.

There was too much chaos, but I had a plate full of boutique quesadillas I needed to shove into my mouth before I ran out, screaming, whapping people square in the face with my backpack. I found myself at the bar, sipping a mocktail called a DuPont sunrise, with Mr. Production.

Mr. Production and I are a lot alike. We’re both middle-aged white men with gray hair. We are both devoted to making our colleagues’ jobs easier. And we’re both really fucking awkward.

We had a lovely conversation, and I ended up staying almost a half an hour later as a result. He told me how he worked at the same society as the Loquacious One, but not at the same time. I told him that hemoglobin was a weird thing to select for in evolution.

Despite that fact that the chips and guac line was behind him, this turned out to be a great getaway from the hassle of the restaurant. I had a lot of work to do before I could call it quits for the day, so I finished my DuPont sunrise and left the restaurant calm and a little rested, if you can believe it.

How did I do? I think I talked too much, which is bad. I figured out how to tip without getting a bill, and I tipped the staff a lot. Throwing money around is bad.

On the other hand, my thoughts were under control, I was focused, and I was patient. I adapted to inconveniences more efficiently because I wasn’t resorting to violence.

I have an appointment with my doctor this evening, and we’ll see where it goes from there.